


Dear Boy

by MostWeakHamlets



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Brotherly Love, Drug Use, Mentions of Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 16:09:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19009231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostWeakHamlets/pseuds/MostWeakHamlets
Summary: Through the years, Mycroft has always cared for his younger brother, and Sherlock has always had a reason to admire him.





	Dear Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thethirdseventh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethirdseventh/gifts).



_ 1877  _

“Keep taking deep breaths.” 

The world looked fake to Sherlock. He looked around Mycroft’s flat, trying to focus on something. Anything. But his vision was dimming and his heart was racing and his skin was sweating and his head was spinning. Everything looked flat, and if he were to reach out to touch anything then he would realize it was all fabricated. Nothing more than painting on a canvas. A backdrop on a stage. 

The only thing he was certain of was that Mycroft’s hand was on his shoulder, doing its best to keep him grounded. 

“It’ll wear off soon, Sherlock.”

Mycroft didn’t seem very concerned. While Sherlock struggled to ground himself in reality, Mycroft managed to stay calm. 

Mycroft was  _ always  _ calm. He never seemed to struggle the way that Sherlock did. He always knew what he was good at and always knew how to apply it. And Sherlock was there, trying to think about how he would ever succeed as a detective through a cloud of cocaine. 

Richardson had fallen into the water. 

Sherlock had followed him through Westminster all day. 

And he had fallen into the water. 

Sherlock had been too close. Richardson started running. And as they were reaching Lambeth Bridge, Richardson had jumped over the iron rails. He looked over his shoulder for just a moment as he was perched on the top. Just enough time to look at Sherlock. Just enough time to pull out a revolver and make Sherlock stop. And Sherlock was suddenly overcome with fear. 

What if he died on the banks of the Thames? There was no way anyone would find him. Even if a constable heard the shot and immediately called for help. Richardson was too close to miss. He wouldn’t miss. He’d easily hit the shoulder. He’d hit the brachial artery. Sherlock would bleed out within minutes. 

Richardson pulled back the hammer. 

He probably wouldn’t be found until morning. And then he’d be cold and pale and stiff. Rigor mortis would be in full effect. And someone would have to go through his coat and try to find anything to identify him with and there would be nothing. And how long would it take for someone notice he was missing? How long would it take Mycroft to notice he was gone? 

“Deep breaths, my dear boy.”

Mycroft was still in front of him. There was a warm fire and a blanket around his shoulders that was pulled tighter around him. He was so  _ cold _ . It was cold that night. Winter was coming soon. 

Sherlock had stood there after Richardson aimed the gun towards himself. And pulled. And  _ bang. _

Richardson had fallen into the river. 

Sherlock sunk to the knees in front of the blood, suddenly wet with sweat and chilled to the bone. The world tilted around him. 

And how did he end up in Mycroft’s apartment from there? When did he pick himself up? When did the constable show up-- _ did  _ a constable show up? 

The constable didn’t matter. 

Mycroft mattered. Mycroft was with him in the flat. His hands had moved from his shoulder to his face. The room was spinning more. His fingers were prodding Sherlock’s jaw. No not jaw. Neck. Pulse. He was checking Sherlock’s pulse. Could he feel the way Sherlock’s heartbeat hammered against his chest? About to break his ribs? About to explode?

Of course, Mycroft could feel it. He knew everything. Of course, he would be able to feel the way Sherlock’s body was rebelling at the cocaine binge. From the moment Sherlock walked through the door, unsteady and confused, he knew. 

He always knew. Mycroft knew everything. He was so much  _ better.  _

Better than Sherlock. 

Sherlock always struggled with what Mycroft did with ease. Mycroft’s life was always stable. And Sherlock always watched…   

Richardson fell into the Thames. 

Sherlock watched most of Richardson fall into the Thames. There was a little bit of him on the iron and concrete. Muddy red of blood and brain matter would cover the stone for a while. Rain would fall hard but not take it away for a few weeks. It would settle into the concrete, refusing to give up its new territory. 

In the concrete. Where Richardson had shot himself. 

There was nothing Sherlock could have done, Mycroft had said when he came to his front door, spouting off a poor retelling of the events of that night with a racing heart and trembling hands. 

Sherlock didn’t know if he believed that. He thought about concrete. Fell underneath him. Pulled out from under his feet. Supported him when he was on his knees. Knees cold. Old rainwater. Soaked through trousers.  

What was more sickening? Bullet hitting skull? Body hitting water? A crack. Splash. Together. A harmony. 

The plunge into his arm--the needle breaking skin and pushing relief--but not true relief--into his body? 

He was so tired--tired of everything. Sleep would never come like this. 

Hands at his shoulders. Arms. Hands. Warmth over him. Touch at his forehead. 

He was being laid down. Or he was falling. 

Richardson would be lost in the water forever. One of many bodies and pollutants in that filthy river. Caught in debris. Faeces. Sewage. Bodies. Bodies of men chased to their death. By guilt. And terrible detectives. 

There was a worse thought. Sherlock kept pushing it out of his head. Refusing to think. Refusing to dwell. If Richardson was not dead by the time he hit the water. Despite unlikely odds. 

Choking on the filthy water. Having to think about death. 

Thoughts washed over Sherlock. No control.  _ No control.  _ Why won’t they stop? They choked him. Paralyzed his limbs. 

“Are you with me? Sherlock?”

He found a hand. 

His senses were fuzzy. There was nothing more. 

Nothing.

The light shining through the curtains wasn’t enough to further irritate Sherlock’s eyes, but it was enough to let him know that it was morning and that he was officially over the euphoria of the cocaine (though, he could hardly call the night before euphoric). 

“I’m glad to see you’re awake.”

He looked over to Mycroft, putting his coat and hat on by the front door. 

“Should I expect you here when I return tonight?”

Sherlock shook his head. 

“Should I expect you at the Diogenes this afternoon?”

Sherlock thought for a moment and nodded. Where else was he to go?

Mycroft left, and Sherlock took his time rising. The first few attempts at standing left him dizzy and forced him to sit again. He finally managed to gather enough strength to walk to the bathroom and take in his appearance. 

He should have expected to look awful, but there wasn’t much he could do about it there. 

The Diogenes Club was always welcoming after he woke up on a sofa in Pall Mall, every inch of his being aching. The outside was loud, an assault to his sensitive head. The Diogenes was pleasantly quiet and antisocial. He was safe. No one would talk to him.

And the best sight was Mycroft finishing his day’s work in his private room. He was so captivated with his work that he didn’t even look up when Sherlock walked in. Of course, from the sound of his footsteps alone he would have known it was him. Mycroft had always said his footsteps were light and even and therefore he was always able to know when he was approaching. Not many other people of his height and with his gait were able to walk so gracefully. He didn’t need to look up from his books; didn’t need to stop his work. 

Mycroft was good at his job--astounding, really. 

Sherlock curled up in the chair across from Mycroft’s desk. He watched with half-lidded eyes as his older brother went over the numbers, finding what didn’t belong and easily fixing small mistakes. His concentration was unwavering. 

Unlike Sherlock, who couldn’t find anything that would hold his attention. All of his focus had been spent putting one foot in front of the other to walk across the street and up the stairs and then finding Mycroft’s room. 

“You look tired.” 

Again, Mycroft didn’t even need to look up to see. Of course, it didn’t take much observation to notice. God knows what time Sherlock finally fell asleep after the grips of cocaine eventually let go of him.  

The light was too much for his head and every muscle ached, but he would rather sit in Mycroft’s silent company than return to his flat once more to sleep. It was less than pleasant there. His landlord had hated him since the first day. It was difficult, Sherlock knew, to put up with his habits and erratic sleep schedule fueled by narcotics and investigations. He knew he was a difficult person. And even if he did get along with his landlord (and the rest of the tenants, for that matter) he knew that sleep wouldn’t come. He’d lie here for hours with all of the pain until complete exhaustion would take over for a few hours. And then the cycle would repeat until he couldn’t stand it and went to the chemist again.  

He’d much rather ride out the worst of the comedown with the one person who tolerated--even encouraged--his quirks. Neither of them ever found any interest in physical affection, but Sherlock secretly found comfort in being close to Mycroft. 

“What’s the matter, my dear boy?” 

There was a touch of concern in Mycroft’s voice. It was unusual, but then Sherlock knew how ashen and unkempt he looked. 

His hand shook as he raised it, running it over the pomade-coated hair. He could feel the locks of hair that were slightly out of place despite his best attempts to tame it that morning.

“I don’t know where to begin,” he said, quietly. 

“Where’s your head right now?”

Mycroft had asked him that question since they were children. When Sherlock’s thoughts became too much to handle, he always went to Mycroft. And Mycroft would calmly ask: “where’s your head?” Sherlock would retrace his steps to where the anxiety had begun.

“It’s by the Thames,” he said. “It’s still in Westminster. I can’t stop thinking about Richardson before he fell in. I can’t stop thinking about how he looked at me, and I know better than to let my emotions get in the way of my work, but Mycroft, I’ve never seen a man die like that before.

“There are a million thoughts in my head at once. I don’t know how to silence them or answer them, and I’ve spent my rent on cocaine because that is what I’ve resorted to. My mind is a disorganized hive. It’s as though it is filled with boisterous bees at times, and I can’t function. Detective work  _ used  _ to help--I could focus on one problem for weeks, but now I can’t seem to concentrate. I make mistakes. I miss details. Last night, I chased a man to his suicide. Today, I realize that with his death, the widow of the man he killed isn’t going to get the closure she wanted. She didn’t want his life to end like this. She only wanted to see Scotland Yard take her seriously, but when they heard that it was a bar fight and petty theft, they weren’t necessarily tactful. I thought that being a consultant on this case would help ease the Yard into sympathy and speed along the process of finding him. I thought I had everything under control.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. His chest ached. 

“I don’t have control. And then I see you, and I see that you’re always in control. You never have to doubt yourself. Ever since we were children, you were always so certain of your every action. You know where your place is in the world, and I am in constant awe of that. I’ve tried for years to get to where you are. I don’t know how to get there, and I don’t think I ever will. And how do I cope knowing that there’s no way I’ll ever be better? I’ll never have the control you have.”

Mycroft had set down his pencil and folded his hands over the books. He avoided looking directly at Sherlock. The air was still, and Sherlock wished that there was a way he could pull his words back in and pretend he never said anything. His exhaustion and the withdrawal had destroyed his filter. 

“There’s always been one thing I’ve never been able to control,” Mycroft said. “You.”

He looked as awkward as Sherlock felt. 

“You... frightened me last night, Sherlock. I hate to admit it, but your condition was out of my control. I was uncertain if you would make it through the night.”

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped. Of course, he hadn’t thought about how Mycroft had dealt with him. Mostly because he didn’t remember much. But he could imagine, from the way he woke up, that he was more than a handful to care for. Looking closely, he could see that Mycroft looked just as exhausted as he felt. He had stayed up with him all night, then. 

“And as for the rest of it--it’ll pass, my dear boy. It’s all temporary. You’ll regain your senses soon. Probably as soon as you stop abusing that infernal drug and chasing criminals through London at ungodly hours of the night. Allow yourself some rest, and you’ll find that everything will start to settle into place. I know what you’re capable of Sherlock, and it’s extraordinary. But you’re young. You’re 23, and you don’t need to perfect your skills right now.”

Sherlock nodded. The last time Mycroft had been so blunt and almost tender (as tender as any Holmes could get) with his encouragement was years ago. Right before he left Sherlock behind for school if Sherlock remembered rightly. 

Mycroft cleared his throat and looked back to his books. “But there’s no point in us sitting here and discussing this sentimental swill. I have work, and I assume that you have something to entertain yourself with. Call for tea if you must.”  

Sherlock didn’t respond, and Mycroft didn’t wait for him to. He returned to his books, not missing a single error and easily making calculations. Sherlock sat back and watched.

* * *

 

_ 1888 _

“An old soldier, I perceive.” 

“And very recently discharged.”

“Served in India, I see.” 

“And a non-commissioned officer.” 

“Royal Artillery, I fancy.”

“And a widower.” 

“But with a child.” 

Mycroft turned to smile at Sherlock. “ _ Children _ , my dear boy,  _ children _ .”

“Come,” Watson said, laughing. “This is a little too much.” 

Mycroft looked to Sherlock, letting him begin the explanation. Watson listened in admiration. 

Sherlock watched him and recognized the expression--the spark in his eyes and gentle smile appearing. It was the same expression Sherlock had worn when he was a child and listened to Mycroft tell him about the guests their father would bring for dinners. They would sit together on the stairs, looking over the adults and whispering to one another. 

“Then, of course,” Mycroft continued, “his complete mourning shows that he has lost someone very dear. The fact that he is doing his own shopping looks as though it were his wife. He has been buying things for children, you perceive. There is a rattle, which shows that one of them is very young. The wife probably died in childbed. The fact that he has a picture-book under his arm shows that there is another child to be thought of.”

Sherlock and Mycroft smiled at Watson, who beamed in response. 

Mycroft reached for his snuff. Sherlock looked back outside at the widower. He could clearly see now after Mycroft had pointed it out, that he was holding a book and the rattle. He hadn’t given any thought to it before. He hadn’t thought that a child wouldn’t be in need of both.

The widower departed, and Mycroft started talking again.

“By the way, Sherlock, I have had something quite after your own heart—a most singular problem—submitted to my judgment. I really had not the energy to follow it up save in a very incomplete fashion, but it gave me a basis for some pleasing speculation. If you would care to hear the facts—” 

Mycroft’s eyes glistened.

“My dear Mycroft, I should be delighted,” Sherlock said. 

Melas was called for, and Watson preoccupied himself with fishing out his pocketbook and pencil and quickly writing down the recent exchange. Sherlock took a seat across from him, readying himself for the client.

Mycroft began moving across the room but paused behind Sherlock’s chair for a moment. Without Watson noticing, he indulged in one of the few physical affectionate gestures towards Sherlock. He reached out and placed his hand on top of Sherlock’s head, careful not to disrupt the styling but resting it there long enough to show him some tenderness--as if to say that he had complete faith in his younger brother’s abilities. Sherlock smiled to himself. Neither acknowledged the rare moment of affection before Melas was shown in. 

Later that night, outside Baker Street, Mycroft stopped Sherlock from following Watson out of the cab and into the flat. With an understanding look between the elder Holmes and the doctor, Watson said a quiet goodnight and offered to ask Mrs. Hudson for tea, if she were still awake.

“You couldn’t have done anything more,” Mycroft said once they were alone. 

Sherlock looked at the front door of the building, visibly exhausted. 

“Listen to me, you stubborn child,” Mycroft said, tone still gentle despite his words. “You should know by now that there’s going to be casualties. You have to find the success in your work and let that keep you going. Nothing that happened tonight makes you a poor detective.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but closed it shaking his head. He took a moment to collect his thoughts. 

“What is your place giving me this advice? When have you  _ ever  _ failed at anything--”

“You always mistake me for being flawless, Sherlock. You must start seeing the world clearly. You sound just like your doctor.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you not read anything he writes?” Mycroft looked to be fighting off a smile. “He takes liberties. He tends to… hide your faults at times.”

“He flatters me.”

“As you do me, my dear boy. You’re more similar than you believe. Now, stop moping and go inside. There’s a chill in the air tonight. I’m sure the tea your doctor offered you will do you a world of good, and his company will keep your head at home tonight.”

Sherlock descended from the cab. 

“Should I expect you next week at the Diogenes?” Mycroft asked. 

“Of course.”

Sherlock began opening the door as Mycroft tapped the roof of the cab with his walking stick, alerting the driver that it was time to leave. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, watching the cab disappear in the fog. It really was a dreadful night. 

Tea would be good. 


End file.
